


Antirrhinum

by thimble



Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga)
Genre: F/F, Reverse Chronology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 17:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15733998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: Maybe, Miko thinks with the muzzle of the gun against her temple, there could be a version of the world where this crowd would listen to her instead, so that Miki could be saved.Maybe, in one of those infinite worlds, they could've had a gentle ending, and an even gentler beginning.In which Miko has better timing.





	Antirrhinum

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Relaxare zine.

Flowers are temperamental creatures. This, Miko knows more than most, having tended to her small garden for years, aided by equal parts sun, fertilizer, and luck. More than bad weather or wandering pests, the slightest change in their routine can cause them to wither without preamble. Snapdragons, especially, are not known for their longevity; she has no idea why she chose to grow them instead of anything else.

(She supposes there are a number of things she doesn't understand about herself—things that have no explanation beyond feeling right, or feeling good, but it's too late to dwell on those now.)

Maybe there's a version of the world where snapdragons evolved to live past the winter, or a version of the world where they thrived, not just survived, in the cold. There could be an infinite number of worlds and infinite breeds of snapdragons that weren't fragile despite their name, that could've been brave and told the truth sooner, that didn't hide behind resentment and jealousy.

(She supposes she isn't talking about snapdragons anymore.)

'I know,' Miki had said earlier, her smile as kind as it is honest. 'I love you too!' she'd told Miko before they parted, before the mob caught up to them and only one of them could keep running.

Maybe, Miko thinks with the muzzle of the gun against her temple, there could be a version of the world where this crowd would listen to her instead, so that Miki could be saved.

Maybe, in one of those infinite worlds, they could've had a gentle ending, and an even gentler beginning.

 

* * *

 

_as blood rained down_

 

Too much happens all at once — the carnage blown up on the big screens, followed soon after by the carnage around her — and whatever guts she thought she had vanishes like dew under the afternoon sun. It's like the Sabbath all over again, and in that moment she forgets what she's become, what she can do, rooted in place and powerless under a rampaging storm.

All she can do is stare, vacantly almost, as the monster charges at her, bones barely registering that she has to move, much less acting on it.

(She's never been behind a wheel, though this is what someone must feel like before a crash: watching something immovable get closer and closer, mind emptied of anything but the impact.)

The moment doesn't give her a chance to be afraid, but it turns out she didn't have to be. The moment, the one that would've been her last, comes and passes her by because of a hand that takes hers just in time.

It's been a while since they'd held hands, the intimacy of it forsaken once childhood shamelessness wore off, but Miki's is still warm, still soft, still leading her someplace safe.

They escape the stadium unscathed, catching their breaths only when the screams were too far away to hear. Only then does it settle in that had Miki not been there, Miko wouldn't be standing here at all.

"You—" she starts to say, forcing herself to swallow against the resistance in her throat. Her eyes burn; how long had she spent wishing that Miki would just disappear?

"You were always more than I deserved."

Gratitude and inadequacy expressed in the same breath, a perfect summation of what she'd always felt. She closes her eyes against the inevitable rejection, because surely that revealed more than what Miki's ready for, but then there's a touch at her cheek, wiping at the tear she didn't even realize seeped out.

"You're wrong," says Miki, forgiveness and acceptance both present in her voice. "I think I'm just right."

Miko is tempted to ask what she means, to kiss the mystery right out of her mouth.

She saves the questions for later, lingering instead in the moment — in the warmth on her skin, and the one that's unfurling in her chest.

 

* * *

 

_with a braver heart_

 

Today's the day. Many might spot the glint in her eyes and misinterpret it as enthusiasm for the track meet — they won't be wrong, exactly. More like scratching the surface of a race that's been years in the making.

Today's the day she makes use of her newfound abilities, milking every last drop from the violence she'd lived through, against all odds. All for this moment, and all for this overdue victory.

Today's the day she reclaims her name from the one who had stolen it. Who had, worst of all, never even meant to.

(She's under no illusions about this newfound bravado either; it's only because of the entity inside her now that she's mustered the guts, but it might also be that the beast had always existed, fed with envy and watered with hate.)

A step into the locker room and suddenly she commands it, every other gaze withering under her own. She sneers and it inspires terror, smirks and makes all the other girls flee.

All except one. But that's alright, she has a whole little speech prepared.

Not that it goes as planned.

One smile from Miki is all it takes. One smile and suddenly Miko's a sunflower seeking daylight, mirroring the curve of those lips as if she hadn't practiced her scowl all morning.

A reporter calls for Miki and she cheerfully turns to leave, but Miko catches her by the wrist, causing Miki to turn to her, curious but not at all wary.

"You think you're so great, don't you? So high in your ivory tower," says Miko, and she'd tried to have it come out harsher, not as this hoarse, desperate sort of whisper that betrays how she really feels. Her grip on Miki colors her knuckles tension-white, yet Miki lets her hold on, as if sensing that what she needs right now is an anchor, adrift as she is in her leaking emotions.

And then Miki, after a small eternity of meeting her eyes, shakes her head. "I don't think that." It's so simple, so succinct, easily disposing of disbelief. "Wherever I am, you belong up there with me."

With that, Miki carefully pries Miko's fingers from her wrist, giving them a squeeze. Meekly, Miko squeezes back.

"You're unbearable, Makimura."

Miki grins, bright as a summer day, and there goes the sunflower basking under it again.

 

* * *

 

_in the same bed_

 

Like the nebulous period between winter and spring, her mind flickers in times like these, never settling on the same image for too long. One moment it's Nagasaki-san's face buried between her breasts, and the next it's Akira-kun pressing his length insistently between her thighs. A hand she bites down on, not quite able to restrain the noises, while the other works in jerking motions, frantic and chasing a high that never quite satisfies.

There's someone she pointedly pushes away from her mind, in times like these, scared that even an errant thought might take root and blossom into something she can't control.

(Not a weed but a vine, weaving itself around her ribs, flowering without her permission.)

But it's that someone that shows up on the screen of her phone when it vibrates. Her voice is low, though hopefully not telltale, when she answers.

"Hello, Miki?"

She manages cursory replies after that, self-consciously wiping her hand on her skirt. Somehow, the conversation turns to Miki's uncertainties. Apparently high school track stars have their problems too.

Somehow, Miko finds herself inviting Miki over.

Somehow, she ends up in Miko's bed, laid out on the same sheets where Miko had touched herself earlier.

(She wonders if the smell of it lingers in the air, some kind of noxious poison that's dangerous if inhaled. Neither perfume nor freshly plucked flowers can save her now.)

Miki seems oblivious to it, at least, though she's also unaware of how painful her rambling is to listen to.

"I don't think he's a bad person, so maybe I should just say y—"

"Don't," interjects Miko, impulsively, regrettably, turning to look the other way. Not that she can stop herself once she's started. "He's an awful man who just wants—"

She bites her lip, teeth like thorns digging in. She can't very well say 'the same thing I do,' can she?

It's Miki who plucks the silence off its stem, not with words, not right away, but by easing Miko to face her again.

"You think that's what I want too?"

Her gaze is harder to meet than an eclipse. Miko looks past her instead, at the ceiling where the shadows dance and the truth can hide a bit longer. "You're too good for that kind of thing, Miki."

"That's not an answer."

Miko sighs, a sad, muted little thing. "I don't know what you want. I never have." And because she's already said too much anyway, "I wish I did."

There's a mouth pressed to hers as soon as the sentence's finished, petal-soft and oddly electric. Blood pools under her cheeks, the initial spark of a forest fire that travels to her ears, her throat, embers streaked across her collarbones. If Miki is as shaken by the contact, she doesn't show it.

She asks, "That enough of a clue?"

A nod is all Miko can manage before she's bolting up and chasing another kiss, another taste, another lick of flame.

 

* * *

 

Flowers are temperamental creatures. They bloom at their own discretion, and wilt without so much as a warning no matter how well they're cared for. It's far more ideal, then, to just imagine a perfect garden, so impossible to achieve in reality but so vibrant and alive in dreaming.

Maybe they could have been morning glories, blooming at night at one of those festivals they used to go to every year, hair done up pretty and lips sticky from the sweets sold at the stalls. As they sat on the grass, waiting to watch the fireworks, Miko could have reached out to tuck a strand of Miki's hair behind her ear to get her attention. She could have told her everything, then and there under the stars.

Maybe they could have been orchids, having grown together in a cluster that the arrival of one Akira-kun in the Makimura home could have made Miko take Miki aside, tearfully confessing her fears that Akira-kun might take her place. Miki, as young as she was, could read flower language quite well and those words weren't too different; Miki would've known what she meant. Her small hands could've found Miko's and entwined, swaying them as she said,

“no matter who comes you'll always, always be my best friend.”

They could have been anything that began from a seed, because this — the magnetic pull between Miki's smile and her sunflower heart — has always existed, asleep in the soil until Miki came along and took her name. Miko, newly christened, could have blurted out something curt, innocently angry in the way only children could be:

"I should hate you, Miki, but I don't."

Maybe, in one of those infinite worlds, they could've been more than snapdragons concealed until the last moment, the truth allowed to blossom into something tall and fragrant and beautiful.


End file.
